It's a quiet edge of Queens, an industrial park with a small park (seriously city planners who puts a park right in an industrial area) complete with swing sets and a creek not far off. The sound of water trickling can be heard from outside. The warehouse itself is drab, noisy, and shouldn't draw any attention. The logo on the front indicates it belongs to Hiroshi Parts— a pick-your-part subsidiary under the umbrella of Takahashi Industries.

The road around the warehouse is quiet, save for the occasional walker out in the dead of night, and the warehouse doesn't appear to be well-guarded.

But then appearances can be deceiving.

It's not exactly the kind of area anyone should be by themselves — even if some are more capable than others. The dark nondescript blue car belonging to a certain member of law enforcement comes to a slow stop in front of the out-of-place park. In the driver's seat, Detective Powers leans back. The dark pull of her eyebrows and the faintly hardened features of her face, while no one's around to witness, are telltale of what kind of day she's had. Her FBI shadow is nowhere to be seen; that might have something to do with it.

She pulls a small scrap of paper out of the front pocket of her jeans. Out of the dark denim comes an address, a few notes — HIROSHI. She glances between it and the building to double-check, a redundant confirmation. The scribbled copy of the bottom of a list, a lead not expected to go anywhere particularly fruitful.

But appearances can be deceiving.

After observing from afar a few moments, the car is moved closer. A murmur into a police radio and the quiet slam of a door later and the detective is making her way toward the warehouse, an unassuming figure in jeans and an athletic heather grey t-shirt, besides the gun and badge. She checks the street-level windows at first, walks the perimeter; then, flashlight first, eases in through the front; she's not even surprised when she finds the door easy to open, not entirely sure, by the looks of things, if the place is even in business.

The room Maggie finds herself in is far from empty, and lit only by multiple flashlights. It echoes with the whispers of others present and the noises of shuffling against the cement floor. Boxes upon boxes are stacked to the ceiling— and a single window is open which boxes are moved in and out of. But the sound of the opening door causes an utter silence to come over the room and each of the flashlights to go out in turn.

First reaction: that's a lot of flashlights.

Second reaction: off. Maggie's, once cast low along the ground and frozen at the sight of others, goes dark.

The third reaction remains a mystery: whatever it is, it's done in the dark; some shuffling and a rustle of fabric provides the only evidence for the quick maneuver.

Stepping backwards, then, her boots kept quite quiet on the cement although she knows she'd been had — so to speak — Maggie moves the way she came in the dark, one arm reaching for faint the sliver of streetlight that is the door.

A single flashlight shines towards the door once again, this time scanning the general area for Maggie— the intruder that may or may not belong. In this dark, they can't tell. And so they send the signal; the one they'd discussed before hand. Three rapid clicks of the light on the wall, and await a response.

The flood of light illuminates an intruder, alright — definitely not one of their own. There is absolutely no denying that Maggie is completely and utterly out of place. The new brightness finds no weapon, however — no holster where there was one before — and the light does not glint off any badge. The only thing readily visible on her belt is a cell phone. Her hand just having made it to the door, it lifts away and she holds her hands up with wide eyes — not scared but certainly surprised. The woman in the jeans and t-shirt looks a good deal like a very out-of-place civilian. "Whoaaa there— I'm sorry I'm interrupting…" This… completely legitimate moving around of boxes in the dark.

"FREEZE!" comes a heavily Irish-accented voice from the darkness.

The light rests on Maggie as one of the many people heard rustling through the dark approaches— gun in hand.

The man's face is relatively non-descript. Dark haired, grissly, and square-jawed he holds his gun in front of him, pointed directly at her and a number of other flashlights turn on. The boxes pile high in the room— crate after crate. And with the increased light, Maggie might be able to see the contents of several that had broken open. Weapons. Semi-automatic weapons.

But then the fellow who holds the gun towards Maggie isn't Japanese, he's distinctly Caucasian and he doesn't waiver in his stance. "What're ye doin' here blondie?"

"Looking around…" Maggie replies one-hundred percent honestly. Her voice is a little too calm, a little too even and matter-of-fact— but her wide stare is incredulous. She can pull off shell-shocked; maybe. Quickly, she takes in the sight of those open boxes with those same eyes — spying the semiautomatic weapons explains so much in an instant — but she's sure to keep her focus mostly ahead on the man who speaks, the grizzled one with the gun pointed on her. "I didn't know anyone was going to be here… I'm— " She only disobeys the order of 'FREEZE!' to inch her hands up a bit further in the air, no harm meant. " — a location scout," goodbye honesty, "I'll just turn around and go right back out."

The cold metal of the gun is pressed right up to Maggie's temple. "She looks like a fed," he yells back to his comrades not far behind him.

"Look outside! Are there more of 'em?"

"I can't look outside without moving my gun— what do we do with her?"

"Ehn. Roscoe?"

But there's silence in the dark as the team debates what to do. The shuffling increases again as the box movement through the window continues. Another one of the Caucasian nondescripts comes to the door, clutching at Maggie to move her forward in the dark before he peeks his head out of the door. "No sign of others…"

"Well then, we'll gist 'ave tah take c're 'o tis one, won't we?"

Maggie's temple resists against the cold metal of the gun, which presses further the reality that her idea to check this place out alone was perhaps not her smartest idea from the get-go in a head full of otherwise smart ideas.

The mention of the name "Roscoe" causes her to blink but she otherwise keeps her gaze steady and without reaction. As she's forced ahead away from the door, she scuffs her boots a little in protest and arches her back in away from the man responsible, 'tripping' to be more or less in front of him and the door. "I'm not a fed," she rebuffs — another complete truth, but her lack of hysterics might be detrimental to her lie about who she really is. Her jaw tenses as she stands rigid amongst the gangsters, noting every one of their positions. "I didn't … see anything," she says slowly, pointedly; as if she's willing to forget.

"Sure you didn't…" another lilting accent mocks as a new face appears out of the flashlight-lit darkness to leer at her, his features thin and pock-mocked: a weasel of a man. "Because dere's nothin' here ta see!"

"Fuck that!" A more serious minded allegation from somewhere closer to the window and its less than legal assembly line, "All dese crates are open. We were suppose ta split and be easy, da's what 'e said."

"Yeah, well, where the fuck did Roscoe go?"

"He was righ' here with me a moment ago, I swear…"

By the ruffled and overly bustling sounds in the back, there's a block in productivity without that mysteriously missing commanding presence. It all creates a certain agitation in the face of the Weasel, whose itchy fingers reach into the back of his pockets for his own weapon. The gun is waved indiscreetly towards Maggie as he eyes the others gathered closest. "C'mon, boys. Who needs daddy's permission. We all know how we take care of t'ings 'ere." As he sidles that pistol more dominantly next to the initial one threatening Maggie's temple, he gives it a bit of a nudge aside, calling dibs. "Consider this… a present from me to the Japs…" His pose, crouched over towards the captured woman's face lets him breathe a bit heavily at her before he straightens with purpose. As he does, a flicker of light reveals around his side. Another person in the darkness; a silent pair of distinctively heavy boots, stained and used. Weasel sees only Maggie and the line of sight down his arm to the hammer that cocks definitively in the shadowy landscape.

BAM shatters the unfinished Irish arguments .

It also shatters Weasel's knee cap as the whole bit explodes very suddenly from behind. With a shrieking moan, he drops his gun with a clatter and then his whole body with a thud that lays him out.

A dozen flashlights immediately catch the whiff of guilty smoke from the fired weapon — and then the far less moved face of the one holding it as he strolls up to the circle of debate around this womanly intruder. "Now see what happens when we get trigger happy." Lesson of the day, courtesy Roscoe.

As the bullet is fired, the gun is lowered in a state of surprise as the thug that had zeroed his gun on Maggie is caught in a state of shock and reprimand, giving a small yelp as he stumbles over one of the boxes loaded with illegal weapons. And in doing, so, his balance changes some.

At the same time, rather fortunately, the flashlight being shone on Maggie flickers out (should've used energizer), concealing her and her former assailant in a kind of darkness just shy of the door.

One moment, Maggie is standing rigid amongst the gangsters, her jaw tense, pulling tautly at muscles in her neck at every hint of threat, containing her flinches as she stares up at the weasel-like man so bent on using his weapon, She's a contained well of adrenaline.

The next moment, the loud gunshot results in more action than that of a man dealing with his shattered knee — the moment barely sees the surrounded detective launching backwards, falling nearer the door, landing legs askew, knees bent. If, in her apparent alarm — and who wouldn't be alarmed? — her scramble causes her hand to prop herself up against the floor, behind the small of her back, to touch something under the t-shirt no one thought to check, well, surely that's just a coincidence … not that, a second later, anyone can see it. The sound of the familiar voice and the switch to darkness springs Maggie into immediate action — she must be on her feet again because the man near the door is barreled into forcibly by her shoulder, slamming him against the wall, and as she makes a break for the exit itself, he's whirled toward her former assailant in the dark. They're all tough; she's at least stronger than she looks.

The rest of the flashlights become a badly choreographed lights show as they dart about to pick up movement in the newly darkened area by the entrance.

"Fuck it!" Roscoe's voice commands, placing him after that initial second of mayhem in a spot not quite where he used to be. A hand out, he grabs for whatever body is nearest, aiming to spin wayward Irishmen in the direction of the somewhat still moving boxes. "Just fuckin' get the stuff outta here— can't do anything for yourselves— "

"You shot me!" rises somehow nearby from the floor, the following grunts and rustles chronicling Weasel's harried attempts to get to his feet. In getting a grip on a nearby shelf, he sends a bottle of something or other spinning to the floor. "An' now some fed broad ("We dun know she was a fed!" a failed attempt elsewhere to assuage the situation) is on the wind— "

"Fuck that."

"Fuck you."

The stomping of boots slows and, as some of the lights find Roscoe, he's poised to turn away but, now quite still, has become focused on the half-standing, half-falling over Weasel. Indecision in the form of thinly controlled anger cuts a line of tension between them; it's a hatred reflected quite clearly in the other man's face. Those nearby find it difficult to look away from what will probably happen next.

The thug near the door is distinctly run into by Maggie. "UGH!" his groan is loud, as he's barrelled into the back wall, her weight bearing down on him. "FUCKIN' FED BITCH!" he yells as he essentially bites it.

In the dark, he gropes around, trying to find something, anything to counter against Maggie, all he finds? The lid to a crate which he tosses towards the door— yet his aim is horrible, incredibly off, between the dark and the startle, he's not going to win any brownie points here.

The fellow that had held the gun to Maggie's head yells through the darkness now, "Who died and made you boss?!" Not that it's ever been a question that Roscoe is a boss; he's scary, mean, demanding, and negotiated somewhat for the position, but now? Mutiny seems on the menu. "And where the FUCK have you been Roscoe?! We can't let a fed get away!" He gropes in the darkness for his gun, which toppled to the ground when he'd clambered there.

The door thug's one saving grace is just this: it's jammed. No one will be leaving the warehouse through that exit without a little light.

Amidst this, the searching lights, moving bodies and in-fighting, the intruder at least seems to be on her way out — there's a clamber of booted feet over the crate lid on the floor that says it didn't find its mark, and only trips her up for a few seconds; the thug who threw it in the first place will then find out firsthand that it's more effective when swung by both hands into someone's face: his.

Wood has barely stopped splintering when Maggie starts to grapple with the door handle giving it a heavy twist and heave. It's noisy, but it doesn't budge, and she sure doesn't have time to stand here with her back turned trying to open it. When she whirls around, it's with her service weapon in both hands — if anyone was still having doubts about her being a fed, they might be joining the bandwagon, even if it's not quite the right one. Her quick gaze, meant to note everyone's positions in what disorganized light there is, finds the man groping for his gun; hers points directly at him as fast as she can manage, hopefully before he's reached his goal — not she can tell, just yet, in the dark. But it's Roscoe's face and the tension it shares with the man he stares down that freezes her attention for the longest, if only for seconds at a time.

Boiling point for the confrontation between Roscoe and Weasel swells unbroken when, just a flinch later — perhaps for leaving that unfinished — the blonde hit-man cuts to the side, making an immediate reach for the one man's gun that is only long enough to shove the piece's aim off to the side, harmlessly towards the wall — though a simple trigger's pull could mean anything for what happened in-between.

Too fast to assess any first results, his swerve carries him still further towards Maggie, putting his body inside anyone else's line of fire. Only his weapon, raised mid-step, has a clear roadmap to the supposed fed. In the last round, her aim was on another target entirely, leaving him at the tactical advantage, and confident in demanding: "Let's not be hasty, sweetie."

The former door thug crumbles to the ground as the crate lid is smashed into his face. Meanwhile, his comrade, guy-with-gun (who shall henceforth be known as Tuzo) loses the grip on his weapon thanks to Laurie, not only is his aim set off, but so is his weapon— at the wall. Noisily bullet ricochet off of it. Startled he shudders a little before his anger turns back to the hit-man, he goads, "What the hell!? ROSCOE! Take her out!! Just do it!!" Like it matters at this point what Roberto would do.

The thug with the gun inches forward— only a few crates between him and Maggie, his gone levelled at her. "She WANTS to take us out! DO IT! Pull the trigger! Taker down!" He zeroes in even more, bringing himself within arms reach of his assumed comrade.

Outnumbered, out in the open, Maggie is almost totally vulnerable until Roscoe steps in the way — and even then… everything is hanging in the balance. She stays still as possible in the chaos provided by the shouts and the gun going off with only a twitch and blink to show for it. Her weapon shifts its steady aim to oppose Roscoe's, her grip primed as if she's ready to use it — but she's not so hasty as that. Face locked in an intense glower — high on determination and adrenaline more than obvious fear or anger — blue eyes fix on the one familiar face in the unfamiliar setting, silently drilling for every shred of intent.

Then, barely perceptibly, her eyes shift off his, just to his side, and return no time. "You heard the man. Take me down," the detective prompts challengingly without looking anywhere but Roscoe; but her weapon follows the same path her eyes veered a moment ago, so too shifting just past Roscoe, suddenly and quite precisely at the armed man sneaking closer amongst the crates. BAM — a shot is fired and no sooner has the bullet left the chamber than Maggie is launching toward Roscoe to— what? The ball is in his court.

Every muscle tightens in another preparatory flinch from Roscoe — not when she launches herself at him — but a moment before when her gun drifts just so to the side. In that instant, his eyes half-close in the tiniest sign of frustration. His barked, "Get down," is cut in half by the blare of the gun firing. Immediately after, that ball Maggie requested turns out to be a wrecking one. No sooner has she moved than he has also surged forward with a noise of anger and concentration to meet her, but he halts suddenly at the last second.

Now as she draws in, he pushes forward with one arm, letting her come right at him with her own momentum, but with that arm angling underneath the one she leads with. With his head tilted away from an attack, both arms are continued over his shoulder, letting her be pulled directly into the knee he raises for her stomach.

"Are you all very fuckin' retarded?" Her arm then the other are subsequently twisted behind her back, twirling her around not only then, but also when he side-steps to present her like a prop in a museum to the rest of the outraged gang. "You don't gun down a fed." Lesson the second. "That only gets the rest of 'em on you like a buncha desperate leeches."

Maggie manages to shoot Tuzo— in the arm. It's not a life threatening shot, but it certainly does one thing: it pisses him off. "FUCKING CUNT BITCH!" he curses loudly. "TAKE HER FUCKING OUT! SHE WANTS IT!" He's doubled over in pain and is essentially non-threatening despite his words.

"FUCK! Now she's going to bring her fed friends to get us!!" Billy, an unnamed redhead near one of the smuggling windows, yells loudly. "TAKE HER OUT!!" The natives are getting restless, it's unfortunate but true. But with Roscoe essentially manhandling Maggie, no one dares step forward; he's frightening and they don't question him beyond their general yelling and goading.

With zero slow-down in her momentum, everything comes at Maggie fast and hard. The instinctively angry shout as she's brought up short, the grunt as the wind is momentarily knocked out of her — there's no need to play games for the sake of show. They're real. As she's spun around, that recently discharged weapon of hers is made inert in the tangle of her hands made by Roscoe's hold on her arms.

She doesn't move once she's snared. On display, she looks a good deal more alarmed than at any point prior, though there's a defiant glare for the shouting Irishmen in her widened eyes, and a tension to her open mouth that could see it scowling any second. But there's no scowl; only a shocked expression waiting in limbo for the next move. There's an irregular quick rise and fall is noticeable under the grey of the cop's shirt — either out of fear, adrenaline, trying to rapidly catch her breath, or all three.

And the Weasel is looking, though his teeth are gritted in pain as he suffers through half-standing, mighty pleased at the rallying cries behind him. His swearing has moved under his breath, but there's no lack of vivid bite against Roscoe's side of things.

Shouting is rampant: "SHE SAW— "

But cut-off: "She didn't see fuckin' nothin'," Roscoe demands, gesturing widely at Tuzo while one hand can keep both of Maggie's wrists contained, "until Dumbasses One and Two decided to invite her in for a felony picnic. She woulda run back to her little buddies on the force and all they woulda heard was— " His hand comes up, squeezing Maggie at the mouth to force her lips to move as he pitches his voice to a high falsetto mocking a woman's one, "— yabba yabba yabba — " the hand and voice drop, "Japanese fucking weapons trade."

There's a murmur of discontent; while some buy the words, everyone's yet out for blood when only that on their side has been spilled. It's impossible to up and forget gunfire. "Know what you do when somebody's seen you at somethin'? Huh? Anybody at all?" More uncomfortable shifting from them. "You get'cher ass outta there, find some stripper to alibi you— " from the low, buzzing anger, he's suddenly screaming mad. An arm cuts across the air violently, just short of smacking Maggie around the face, "— AND YOU DON'T LEAVE ANY FUCKING EVIDENCE."

The sheer volume of the yelling sucks most of the immediate fight out of them, leaving a quiet, ashamed void where Roscoe shakes his head, muttering for himself. "Un-fucking-believable." With the occupied hand, he hefts his police burden up and to the side, waving the other in a vaguely menacing manner at everyone else. "Now, I'm going to go take care of this," shake shake Maggie, "Get - your jobs. Fuckin'. Done."

Maggie's hoisted, yanked too high on most steps for her feet to fully capture the ground to a door slightly less jammed than the other. It pops open and then shut behind them. Hitting cool outside air, Roscoe releases his hold on Maggie in the form of a shove that projects her away.

The jarring journey out of the warehouse — shaken and having to struggle to walk in the stronghold of Roscoe — doesn't end once Maggie is outside. On the shove, she takes the momentum several paces further, finding her ground. Her gun gets tucked into the back of her pants once she begins to turn around. The relative freedom seems to have done little to lessen the signs of heightened adrenaline — heightened everything.

Widened, quick-moving eyes blink several times at the undercover man, blinking until the face of Roscoe turns into that of Laurie— at least that's the plan, but she looks away, up at the warehouse and its windows, and runs a hand through her hair, before the gaze returns steadier. The other hand splays across her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt and the body underneath. She speaks lowly, a half-contained thrum of energy underneath words that would otherwise be steady. "I'm sorry I put you in that position."

The face staring at her makes no signs of familiarity easy. Stone-cold and expressionless, Laurie only plants in the place he stopped walking and neutrally watches her bid for balance and speaking. Nothing, no response. Not even a blink. Just the slide of his hand to his waistband where the gun was stored while he held her and he points out with the weapon towards the gritty ground some feet to Maggie's side. One shot recoils in his hand. Then another. Then several more in rapid, unblinking succession

Only the bursting violence of the gun going off seems to ease his mood at all, letting his gaze drift slightly to the side before he drops to a crouch to recover the crowd of fallen bullet casings. A spirited inhale seems to gear up for much more than the exhale he delivers, the quiet, "It is what it is." No accusation makes it into those short words, he's only distracted; he's thinking about what he has to do next.

And that's how he turns away towards the door and that sketchily worked up crowd inside without another glance at her.

Maggie shuts her eyes for the duration of the shots. Shut, not squeezed tight; trying to ignore them rather than be scared by them, though every resounding, nearby sound, familiar though it is, has the side effect of producing a flinch just under her skin. "So much for not gunning down a fed," she says afterward, not that she was gunned down — or a fed.

As she watches Roscoe— Laurie— head toward the door, and as she prepares to make herself disappear, Maggie speaks, almost murmuring, into the quiet, to his back. "…Hey. Thanks." Tense. Thick. Reluctant. "… I don't think I'll be calling this in." A simple statement that speaks several volumes coming from this detective.

"Sometimes the fed don't give you any choice." Roscoe — because it really is Roscoe — verbally retaliates, in a step that has him pausing as a hand slaps against the doorframe. "Then you make sure you take care of it right." Or hear about it from the restless blood-hounds inside. There's a bit of a pause just as he makes the pull on the handle, his weight shifting with his muscles all tense with the weight of the door. Was it a pause to talk, to signal her — does he tell her something just by hesitating, tilting his head, and that hint of a breathless, sheepish laugh — ?

The only clear thing that happens is he leaves silently, moody and filled with the act of what he supposedly just did.

Though even then, past numerous shots fired and the air of murder around Roscoe as he slips inside, the door doesn't resoundingly close until there's a last echo of discontent from the gallery. Loud, clear — making sure everyone knows, it's the Weasel: "This isn't over, Peregrino— "